


What Really Happened During Infinite Crisis...

by Dragonbat



Category: Batman (Comics), Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Gen, One Shot, RPF, Subreality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-08
Updated: 2010-09-08
Packaged: 2017-12-31 02:33:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1026242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragonbat/pseuds/Dragonbat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>We couldn’t tell you the whole scoop on how Nightwing survived... until now!</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Really Happened During Infinite Crisis...

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: RPF—and probably OOC RPF at that. Story may be past its sell-by date, but the bunny finally sat still and spilled the beans! Unbeta’d. You know who to blame for all the misplaced commas and tense shifts.

**What Really Happened During Infinite Crisis**

"I'm dreaming, aren't I?" The writer massaged his left eyelid with the backs of his fingers. "I mean, this can't be real."  
  
"Reality can be subjective," the cowled figure said in a gravelly voice. "As well you know."  
  
"Well, yes. Up to a certain point. But..."  
  
Batman grunted. "You've heard of the Subreality Café, I believe?"  
  
"Neutral ground where characters go to hang out in-between stories? Sure."  
  
"Characters and writers," Batman corrected. "This space is similar. Think of it as the Subreality Boardroom. Since you've already demonstrated a better understanding of me than many, I'm sure you'll understand when I tell you that I rarely... 'hang out' with others. My business is with you."  
  
"Um... no offence, but, if you're here on business, shouldn't you be in your other clothes?"  
  
The masked man glowered for a moment. Then, without fanfare, lights, or a musical cue, a blue business suit replaced the bat-costume. It wasn't a gradual transformation. One moment the writer was sitting across the table looking at Batman and the next, it was Bruce Wayne who stared back. "You aren't easily intimidated," he said in a voice that had lost most of its gravel. "That's good. I need that."  
  
"I don't understand."   
  
"You will. If you don't already suspect."   
  
This was no foppish playboy, the writer realized. Bruce might not be as scary as his alter ego, but, going by the stubborn set of his jaw, he was no less determined. "I'm listening," he said.  
  
Bruce pushed a notebook and a silver Cross pen across the polished wood table. "Do better. Write it down."  
  
"Oh-kay,” the writer said, picking up the pen. “So... how can I help you? I mean, I'm flattered, but I'm not currently on one of your titles. Is there a particular story you wanted me to pitch?"  
  
"Yes, but not for me. And you are on the relevant title."  
  
"Really?" A sudden fragrance made the writer glance down at the table. A mug of hot coffee had materialized before him. "Then, no offence intended, but why are you here and not the other... character?"  
  
Bruce's expression hardened. "He trusts to certain corrective factors within our medium to undo the damage. I find myself unable to share his optimism. Nor am I prepared to wait however many years it might take for your higher-ups to come to their senses or move on."  
  
"Wait," the writer said, leaning forward. "You're not talking about one of my regular titles, are you? This is about Nightwing."  
  
Bruce nodded. "I’ve been reviewing some other case histories. Jean Grey was killed in 1980. It took six years for her to return. Of course, that hardly compares to Jason. _Seventeen years_? And then there's the Barnes file..."  
  
The writer took a sip of coffee. His eyes grew wide. This... this was the coffee of his... _dreams_. "I see where you're coming from, but come on—this is Dick Grayson, we're talking about! How long do you seriously think we can keep him out of action?"  
  
"I would prefer not to find out. You've gone on record as being one of his supporters. You have Editorial's ear. I'll be direct. See that my son survives Crisis and..." He took a deep breath. "Tell DiDio, he can have me instead."  
  
"What?" He fumbled as he set down the coffee mug, and it tipped over. The liquid hung in mid-air, but evaporated before it hit the table. As the writer was still processing the evidence of his eyes, his mug righted itself, once more filled to the top.  
  
"If you need another death to prove that this particular storyline is some sort of epic event, I..." Bruce's voice took on a glint of humor that would never have surfaced had he been in the bat-suit, "I have a red shirt or two in my wardrobe." He smiled. "I'm a bit more sanguine about my own chances for a speedy return," he said. "Frankly, I could use a bit of a sabbatical. An average of five titles per month?" He shook his head. "Not including JLA and guest appearances? I haven't felt this close to burnout since Bane showed up."  
  
"Somehow, I can't quite see you lazing on the beach with a margarita in one hand and a blonde in the other."  
  
The cowl reappeared in jarring dissonance with the three-piece suit and neat striped tie. "That's because Bruce Wayne has been getting far less panel space, lately. I may not need much downtime, but I think I'm entitled to _some_." The cowl vanished. "If it makes you feel better, you can believe that there's a gym somewhere on this plane of existence, and I'll be spending my time learning anbo-jitsu and Heliconan twisting. When you're ready for me to come back, I'll have a few new tricks up my sleeve."  
  
"It's an interesting proposal," the writer said, "But there is one problem. The art's already been drawn for 'Crisis, and we won't be able to redo and still get the book out on schedule. _But_ ," he said slowly, "it hasn't been lettered yet. I take it you have no objection to going ballistic if Alexander Luthor only _stuns_ Nightwing, instead of killing him?"  
  
Bruce sighed. "It's out of character, but I've had worse."  
  
The writer finished his coffee. "Alright. I'll call Dan tomorrow and give it the old college try."  
  
Bruce's eyes went Bat-cold. "No. You'll _do_. I don't care if you and Levitz have to stand over him and take turns with a whiffle-bat. You get Nightwing's name off the KIA list. Tell DiDio he can even kill me _twice_ —once in my own title and once for your next, status-quo-shaking..." his lip curled sarcastically, " _Event_." He leaned forward. "Do it. Or the next time we meet here," his expression hardened, "I will _not_ be as... nice."  
  
The writer gulped. "Grayson lives, you die twice. Got it."  
  
Bruce extended his hand. As the writer took it, the boardroom began to dissolve. An instant later he found himself sitting at his desk in his home office, a half-mug of coffee at his elbow. He took a sip and made a face. It was stone cold. He shook his head to clear away the cobwebs. That had been _some_ dream. The idea of killing off Nightwing had never sat well with him, and it looked like his subconscious had been working overtime to let him know about it. Still, it had been just a dream. It was probably too late to do anything about the death anyway. The panels had already been drawn.   
  
He got up to make a fresh cup and realized that he was running low on both coffee and creamer. That was what happened when a person spent too many long nights struggling to make deadline. He picked up a pen and a piece of scrap paper to write a short grocery list. Then he froze. He was holding a silver Cross pen _that he was positive hadn’t been in his possession earlier..._ and there was a bat-symbol on the piece of paper—which, as he could plainly see, was anything but scrap. Written on it in a bold, clear hand, were the words: _Thanks, G. I won't forget this. B._  
  
The writer swallowed. Then, he picked up the phone and made two calls. The first was to Paul Levitz. It was a bit of a longshot—the man rarely came down to interfere with editorial decisions, but Batman had mentioned him. It was worth a try. He'd been pleasantly surprised to find that Levitz was still at his DC office, working late. Once he'd told the publisher what he was planning and, perhaps not-so-amazingly, secured his support, he placed the second call.  
  
"Hello, Dan? It's Geoff, here. Listen, Paul and I have something to discuss with you that really won't wait. Can you give us ten minutes tomorrow? Yes, it's that urgent..."  
  


* * *

  
  
In February 2010, Geoff Johns was named Chief Creative Officer of DC Comics. On his first day in his new office, he noticed a small square envelope addressed to him in handwriting that he recognized instantly--even though it had been more than five years since he'd received the last correspondence.  
  
 _G._  
  
 _Now, we're even. Sorry for the delay, but I have less influence on your Earth than on mine._  
  
 _B._  
  
 _P.S. Have achieved black belt mastery in Heliconan Twisting._  
  
Geoff smiled and slipped the letter into his briefcase. “You’re welcome, Bruce,” he said softly.  
  
“Hey!” he called to his administrative assistant in the outer office. “Any idea how I can get a cup of coffee around here?”


End file.
